


Strange Harmony

by thatceliachick



Category: Major Crimes, The Closer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:22:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24579763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatceliachick/pseuds/thatceliachick
Summary: A musical interlude on a boring stakeout.
Kudos: 6





	Strange Harmony

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for these two, and the first thing I've written in ages. I was watching a rerun of another cop drama (bonus points if you know which one, and who the singers were) when this popped into my head. And yes, it hurt a little.

The power windows didn’t work on the old Buick, so they had to keep them rolled up. But it was warm for November, and no one really wanted to ask why the interior of the car smelled like rotten tuna, and no one really wanted to come right out and say that this surveillance was a waste of time and money.  
Honestly, the tan Buick sedan defined nondescript, which was perfect for surveillance work, really, but in East L.A., two Anglos in a nondescript sedan defined “cops” in any dictionary that mattered. So when the fourth 20-something waved at them as he walked by, Captain Sharon Raydor could be silent no longer.  
“Chief, I think they know we’re here,” she said. And she really did try to keep the snark from her voice, but this was the fourth night Major Crimes had sat on Chatham Avenue, watching Aurelio Ortega’s little gray house.  
“I know, I know,” Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson said. “But Ortega might not.”  
Brenda Leigh and her team – and Raydor, if she were honest – were convinced Ortega had murdered Anamaria Escalante, Mireya Nunez and Jacinta Escobar to keep them quiet about his thriving heroin trade. All three had transported the product for him at one time or another, and all three had been pinched with the goods.  
And just as they were getting ready to tell the cops everything, all three just disappeared.  
They had to be dead, Brenda Leigh and her team reasoned. But without bodies, there was no proof.  
They’d dragged Ortega in for questioning, and he and his lawyer had kept absolutely silent.  
Even when Brenda Leigh warned Ortega that they were thisclose to finding the bodies, even without his help. “I can’t help you then, Mr. Ortega,” Brenda Leigh warned. “Even your attorney here won’t be able to help you then.”  
Ortega and the lawyer just smirked and got up to leave, Ortega blowing a kiss as the elevator doors closed.  
And they’d let him go and immediately set up surveillance, convinced he would panic and head for wherever he’d hidden the bodies so he could move or destroy them.  
Monday night, he left at about 8 p.m., picked up takeout from a taqueria around the corner and returned home.  
Tuesday night, he spent about an hour pulling weeds in the back yard.  
Wednesday, he washed his car in the driveway, not even turning to glare at the white painter’s truck Provenza and Flynn were holed up in, then went inside to order a pizza. When the delivery car pulled up, Provenza had said, “He could have at least ordered an extra one for us.”  
And tonight it was nearly 11 and the house was dark and quiet and even though Raydor took her job babysitting Major Crimes really, really seriously, she just wanted a night off. And watching Brenda Leigh Johnson watch Ortega’s house, she wondered again how such a tiny woman could be so lethal. Men like Ortega underestimated her at their own peril.  
Men like Terrell Baylor, too, she thought, and almost felt guilty.  
For a minute.  
We just don’t like each other, she thought, and really, it was kind of a shame. She could use another friend.  
“For heaven’s sake, don’t they play music on the radio anymore?” Brenda Leigh started pushing the scan button on the car stereo. “These commercials are drivin’ me crazy.”  
Finally, she found an oldies station. Elvis helped kill a few minutes, and the Beatles were the Beatles.  
“John Lennon was weird,” Brenda Leigh said.  
“I’m sure the drugs didn’t help,” Raydor said.  
“Or Yoko.”  
And then the Ronettes were playing, and Raydor hadn’t heard this song in years and was a little embarrassed when she realized she was singing out loud until she heard Brenda Leigh singing too.  
“I’ll make you happy, baby,” she sang, and Brenda Leigh finished, “just wait and see.” And together they sang, “For every kiss you give me, I’ll give you three…”  
They smiled at each other for a second or two, heads bobbing to the music.  
And Brenda Leigh knew the first verse to “You Don’t Own Me,” but not the second, but Raydor knew the whole song and it fit her range better any way.  
“Did you know Lesley Gore went to medical school after this song?”  
“Really? She was a doctor?”  
And then they were in the wagon of a travelin’ show, singing along with Cher. “Gypsies, tramps and thieves,” they wailed together.  
“Her mama used to dance for the money they’d throw,” Brenda Leigh sang, a little off-key and kind of sharp, right in Raydor’s ear.  
“The garage light just came on,” Raydor said, and sat up straight, watching as the garage door rose slowly and Ortega’s white Kia backed down the driveway and headed south on Chatham.  
Brenda Leigh pulled out a few cars behind him and they headed up toward the hills. When Don Henley sang, “Welcome to the Hotel California,” Raydor reached over and turned the radio off.


End file.
